Talk to Me
by shelllessturtle
Summary: An injury to Rose's eyes leaves her blind, and the Doctor has to fix her.  Nine/Rose, hurt/comfort, shameless fluff


A/N: For the first time in my life, I had a bunny that did not come with characters included. Most of the time, when I get an idea, it has characters built in; if it's for a fanfiction, I know what fandom, and if it's original, I know the characters already. This one, on the other hand, was just a sentence. Three simple words; a command, really: "Talk to me."

I had to figure everything else out myself, especially since those three words wouldn't leave me alone. I hope the end result is to their satisfaction.

Warning: My beta had a fangirl squee fit, and she doesn't normally do that. Fluff ahead. Be careful.

Disclaimer: If I owned Doctor Who, Eccleston would have never been allowed to leave. Just sayin'.

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><p>"Blind?"<p>

The word is a squeak; her voice trembles.

"For now," he says, trying to be reassuring. He envelopes her small, warm, human hand in his much larger, much cooler one. "I can fix you," he promises. "It'll just take a while." He falls into silence, unsure what to say.

She uses her free hand to finger the cloth covering her eyes, her beautiful caramel brown eyes. Quiet fills the room, as tangible as the bed she lays on.

"Talk to me," she says.

He hears, "Reassure me." She must be so afraid that she'll never see again. She is so young, and her eyes have been hurt badly, it's a perfectly legitimate fear. But he can fix her, he knows he can. He's done it before, and on more complex eyes than human. He just needs time.

She means, "Reassure me." He moves so much. Their entire life is based on motion. He must hate being tethered in any way, even by a companion's injury. She cannot do anything while blind, and she needs to know that he won't abandon her.

He says, "You'll be fine."

She hears, "I'll fix you."

He means, "I won't leave you."

"Talk to me," she says.

Her eyelids are still shut over sightless eyes, but she has been awake for minutes now. She has said it often over the past few days, during the slow process of her healing.

He hears, "Show me you're far enough away." She knows about his crush, she must do. She doesn't want him too close, in case he tries something in her incapacitated state. As if he'd have the courage.

She means, "Show me you haven't left." He had promised to stay, but she knows him. He cannot stand to be still. Had he gotten bored, gone to work on his ship? She can never know, never tell whether the presence she feels in the room is him or her imagination. And she has to know.

He says, "Want a story?"

She hears, "I won't get too close."

He means, "I'm not going anywhere."

"Talk to me," she says.

She is sitting on the jumpseat in the console room. Her vision is still dark, she still cannot see, but he tells her that her eyes are clearing, that they look almost normal now, and that's good, that means she's healing. She has learned to navigate the ship without his help. Of course, the ship herself helps, but it's nice to not need him every time she needs the loo.

He hears, "I'm bored." It must be so tiresome for her to not be able to do everything she used to. She can't read, she can't really watch movies, she can't even watch him work, which she'd told him once that she likes doing. He doesn't know what he can do for her. If he tries to speed the healing up, her eyes might not heal right, and they'd be permanently damaged then. There's not much he can do at this point.

She means, "I wish I could help." She feels useless. When he's working, she can normally hand him things, at least, but now she'd need verbal instructions on where things are and how to get them to him. She hates it, hates that she is no longer a helpful member of the team they make.

He says, "I don't know if I have the right parts for this."

She hears, "I'm sorry I have nothing."

He means, "Just being there is help enough."

"Talk to me," she says.

Her vision is better. She can't see clearly, but she can see enough to help again. It has wreaked havoc with her balance, though. She either has to keep her hand on the wall all the time, or hold his. She doesn't mind, though. Their hands fit together so well, and it just feels right.

He hears, "Thank you." He's glad she can see again, perhaps even as much as she is herself. He loves the way her face looks when she sees something new and wonderful, and he has missed it. Perhaps things will get back to normal soon. Well, as normal as things ever are.

She means, "Is this it?" They have gotten much closer of the past few weeks, just out of necessity, and she wants to know if they will remain so, or if their new-found closeness will fade out as her eyesight fades in.

He says, "Can you see the stars?"

She hears, "You're welcome."

He means, "Not if I can help it."

"Talk to me," she says.

Her vision is back. She can see again. Usually, anyway. Right now, though, her eyes are closed. Her arms are wrapped around him, and his are around her. Her forehead is resting on the supple leather of his jacket-covered shoulder, and they have just shared the tenderest kiss she can remember having.

He hears, "Tell me the truth." It's funny, but the thought of the truth, and telling it to her, doesn't scare him like it used to. Maybe he can.

She means, "Tell me the truth." Hoping against hope that maybe he will say it, say the thing he has forgotten how disguise in the time she could not see him.

He says, "I love you."

She hears, "I love you."

He means, "I love you."


End file.
